


Transport of Delight

by cactusonastair



Series: Acts of Happiness [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Additional background pairing, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Lewis Happy Fanworks Fest, digging is hard - let's go rowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusonastair/pseuds/cactusonastair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis and Hathaway participate in a boat race for charity. Episode tag for s7e6 "Intelligent Design". Mild spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transport of Delight

**Author's Note:**

> Continues from the previous fic in this series, Allotment of Joy, but can also be read independently. Based on [this historical incident](http://www.sahof.org.au/hall-of-fame/member-profile/?memberID=424&memberType=athlete).
> 
>  **Acknowledgments:** With immense thanks to wendymr for her excellent beta-ing and Britpicking! All remaining errors are, of course, my own.
> 
> Originally published on 24 February 2013 on LiveJournal.

"For the record, this is _not_ my idea of a relaxing retirement." Robbie glares over his shoulder at James. His sun shades hide his eyes, but the shape of his ex-sergeant's face is unmistakably a smirk.

"What's not to like?" James asks, leaning casually against his oars. "Sunshine, light exercise, being out on the water..."

"That's probably what they said to galley slaves before pressganging them into service," Robbie retorts. He glances to his right, where seven other boats are lined up beside them, waiting for the starting gun. "Don't pretend you aren't going to row your hardest."

"It's just a charity race," James says serenely.

They'd been pressed to enter it when they first purchased their dinghy, a little over three weeks ago. James had looked so keen Robbie hadn't the heart to say no. At least, once James assured him that no, he wouldn't die of a heart attack mid-course, and no, he wouldn't put his back out - well, not with the proper training anyway. Which James of course stood ready to offer at any moment.

The first few sessions had been murder, Robbie discovering muscles he never knew he had. But the key to rowing was more technique than sheer muscle power, and James was nothing if not technically proficient. His experience might lie in long, sleek racing shells and not short, stout dinghies, but he'd adapted what he knew and patiently passed it on to Robbie. Even if it was with the air of teaching an old dog new tricks.

"Just remember to breathe and follow my rhythm," James instructs him now. "If it gets too much, just pull in your oars and I'll take over."

 _Cocky sod._ But it's a completely justified cockiness, Robbie knows. Rowing technique isn't all he has. There's a lot of power packed into James' deceptively slim body. So long as he doesn't muck this up for James, they actually have a shot at this. "Just a charity race" it might be, but James has a competitive streak a mile long when it comes to things he actually cares about.

A horn sounds. "Looks like they're going to start," James says, straightening his back. Robbie's stomach flutters as he readies his oars, the way James showed him, which is a bit ridiculous, at his age - then again, so is taking up competitive rowing at fifty-eight. But so far, it looks like retirement is just the start of a whole new set of adventures.

Robbie glances around and sees Laura amid the cluster of cyclists on the bank, waiting to follow the boats. She blows him a good-luck kiss, and gestures for him to pay attention.

The gun pops, and they're off amidst a raucous cheer. James begins calling out a swift rhythm, and Robbie swings his oars in time with it. It's a bit of a struggle at first, but James manages to adjust for his inaccuracies and they fall into lockstep.

For a couple of lengths, they're neck-and-neck with a few of the other boats, but gradually, subtly, James raises the rhythm to a blistering pace and they pull ever so slightly ahead. The lad's doing most of the work, of course; Robbie doesn't dig his oars in as deep as James does, but he's elated that he can at least keep up. The river rushes by as they row, the wind ruffling his hair; this is faster than they've ever gone in training. He actually starts to enjoy himself, the slight strain of his muscles, the childish glee at seeing the distance increase between them and their competitors, the feeling of connection as he and James work in perfect synchronisation, just as they always used to as detectives.

They're a full two lengths ahead when James' voice shatters the calm. "Robbie! Stop! Now!"

Robbie has no idea what's wrong, but he does as James says, digging in his oars. The forward momentum sends his oars sweeping forward uselessly anyway, but James manages to stand firm, jamming his oars into the water like two anchors. The dinghy scuds to a halt.

"I thought we were doing pretty well there, what the hell's the matter?" Robbie asks, twisting around to look at James. The lad's bent over his oars, breathing hard from the sudden effort of stopping the boat, but he raises a hand and points behind him. Robbie peeks around the lad at the open water ahead and sees the reason for the sudden panic.

A mother duck placidly makes her way across their bow, followed by a trail of tiny fuzzy green ducklings, entirely oblivious to the danger her mini-flotilla would have been in, if it hadn't been for James' alertness and strength.

"Couldn't run them over," James says, turning back and giving him an apologetic smile.

Robbie has to laugh. "'Course you couldn't. You big softie."

A couple of lanes down, the nearest boat passes them by, but James doesn't seem to be in a hurry. One of the ducklings strays off course, bobbing up against the bow of the boat. James puts his hand in the water and gently lifts it out, murmuring, "Up and over," before returning it to the ranks. A clearly audible _awww_ goes up from the audience. Robbie hears the clicks of cameras, and knows this moment's being recorded for posterity.

"Ready to go?" James asks, when the ducklings are finally out of oars' reach.

"We'll never catch the others up," Robbie says. All the other boats have passed them by now.

"Oh, you never know." Robbie can hear the predatory grin in James' voice. "One, two..."

*

"You should have heard the ovaries exploding when James lifted that last duckling out of the water," Laura tells them later as they drag their dinghy up onto the banks of the Cherwell. She looks at James, a cheeky grin on her face. "You're developing quite a fanclub."

"Then I'm glad we came in fourth," James says dryly. "We can skip the prize presentation later."

"Actually," a familiar voice interposes, "I did hear some chatter of a special award for sportmanship, up at the pavilion." Jean Innocent appears out of nowhere, dressed to the nines as she usually is at these social events.

"Ma'am?" Robbie just manages to suppress the "what are _you_ doing here?".

"Oh, Robbie. It's Jean, surely."

Robbie nods. "Jean. I didn't know you came to these things."

"Not usually, but when Laura called me and said that the two of you were going to be racing for charity, I had to come and see for myself." There's a distinct twinkle in Innocent's eye. "I saw that little incident from the pavilion, by the way. James, I have a bone to pick with you."

"Ma'am?" He looks distinctly alarmed.

"Why on _earth_ couldn't you have produced this sort of stunt while you were still on the force?" Innocent demands. Robbie notices that James' _ma'am_ goes uncorrected.

"Didn't have much time to race while I was on the force," James stutters out.

"Besides, I seem to recall that James has saved quite a few members of the public in his time," Laura adds.

"I know, but five _ducklings_! Think of the photo opportunity!" Innocent mourns. She recovers rapidly. "Ah well. Shall we try and grab a table up at the pub?"

They manage to find a table in a corner of the pub, which is crowded with thirsty rowers. No sooner have they sat down with their first round than the first "fan" presents himself.

"Francis Mitchell, Oxford Herald. You must remember me. We worked together on the Miranda Thornton case?" he introduces himself hopefully. James rolls his eyes at the suggestion that they did anything more than accept a folder of old papers from the reporter, even if they'd led indirectly to the cracking of the case.

"Mr Mitchell. What can we do for you today?" Robbie asks resignedly.

"I was hoping to have a word with Sergeant Hathaway here, about that adorable little incident with the ducks."

"Just Mr Hathaway now, thanks," James says.

Mitchell's eyebrows go up in frank interest. "Oh? Any interesting story there?"

"That's hardly your beat, is it?" Robbie says pointedly.

"Always on the lookout for stories of human interest, guv. So, may I...?"

Robbie sees the obstinate set of James' mouth, but he also knows they won't get any peace until Mitchell gets his story. He jerks a thumb towards Mitchell and the bar. "Go on with you, lad."

James gives him an injured look, then rises from the table and slouches off after a rejoicing Mitchell.

"Be sure to write down that they're ex-Oxfordshire Police officers!" Innocent calls after them.

"How're things at the station, ma'am? I mean, Jean?" Robbie corrects himself at the tiny frown from Innocent. Bloody hell, it really is hard to change that habit. He supposes he shouldn't have bollocked James so much about always calling him "sir".

"Passable. We've had a 100% reduction in complaints from the public about police facetiousness." Innocent smiles warmly. "But it's not the same without you two." She pauses, then continues, "So, rowing. What happened to pottering about the allotment?"

"Still happening. First few plants are coming up, as a matter of fact. James helped me with the digging."

"And that's why he co-opted you into his rowing?"

"That was actually Robbie's idea," Laura put in. "He's always wanted a little dinghy."

"But I understand that you haven't ever really rowed before, is that right?" Innocent asks. "Only you looked quite professional out there today."

"You're right, I haven't. But James is a good coach. Merciless, but good," Robbie chuckles.

"Well, I'm still sorry you retired, but at least you're making the best of it." Innocent sounds a bit wistful.

"You ought to come out with us some time. Both of you. It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but the dinghy does seat four."

Innocent and Laura exchange glances. "Well, that's very kind of you, Robbie. Some Sunday, perhaps, assuming the criminal underworld of Oxford allows it."

"Yeah, all right," Robbie says.

Innocent excuses herself to powder her nose. Laura goes to get another round in. Robbie looks across at the bar. James is leaning against it, fielding Mitchell's questions. A little crowd forms and re-forms around them, people clapping him on the back and worse. Some of them even seem to know him personally - rowing aficionados recognising Attaway Hathaway, Robbie reckons. James looks like he hates every moment of it.

James is casting pleading looks towards him now, begging for rescue. Robbie looks at his watch, and back up at them. He'll give Mitchell another two minutes for questions, and then he'll extricate James. In the meantime, he can sit back and be amused at the familiar signs of the lad's frustration. Only James, he thinks – only James could be so competitive, and yet so patient as to just sit there while a row of ducks meandered across his path. And only James would get so annoyed by the attention garnered by a good deed.

Laura returns with four beers. She glances at him, follows his gaze, and divines his thoughts, as she always does. She smiles. "Your awkward sod?" she says knowingly.

"My awkward sod," Robbie agrees.


End file.
